Illusion
by Soulreciever
Summary: He recalls that, even then, he had known him for his true self. Slash, angst, game 3 spoilers, slight AU
1. 1

1.

Every Friday after taking tea in the parlour he would leave the tending of the house in Luke's surprisingly capable hands and take a pleasant stroll about the city. At 2:15 precisely he would stroll into the modest lobby at Boodles and hand both his coat and top hat to a waiting butler. He would then settle himself into the Chesterfield that occupied the North end of the club and allow his mind to drift for a while.

It was a routine that he had established in order to rein in a little of the chaos that had taken over his life after Claire's death and that had developed, over time, into a thing of pleasure rather than necessity.

It had also allowed The Other to find him.

He recalls that he had been engaged in the study of an article on phrenology when the soft sound of china hitting china alerted to the arrival of his 3pm tea and that he had placed the thing to one side so that he properly thank the butler, that it has been that action that had drawn his attention to The Other.

He recalls that he had thought The Other attractive even then, that something in his stance and the light in his eyes had pulled at a part of him that he'd believed long since dead.

He recalls that, even then, he had known him for his true self.

Of course, at the time, such a thing had seemed impossible, an illogical conclusion that his sharp mind had explained away with a rational that he can not now recall.

Time had also destroyed the reasoning that had lain behind his initial approach of The Other, behind the instigation of something that, even then, a part of him had understood to be a bad thing. He knows that there must have been a logic behind his actions, that the individual that he had been, back then, would have believed approaching a stranger without due cause an 'un-gentlemanly act', and yet…

And yet…

Oh so quickly he and The Other had developed the sort of rapport that one would expect from long term acquaintances and, after a mere month of exchanging views and trading ideas, the thought of loosing The Other had become painful to him.

Something that had, with a steady sort of certainty, twisted itself into a desperate longing which brought back memories of the Past…

...of her…

For a while the stirring of that old grief had been enough to slow things down a little, for his mind to begin scrabbling for some way back to sanity before it became too late and then…

And then…

The Other had phoned to request a meeting and he'd agreed with little more than a second thought. They'd drunk tea together and talked about such simple things that the day might easily have passed in the same manner as a Friday afternoon at Boodles. Then the other's posture had changed, oh so slightly, and catching him in a fixed sort of gaze, he had enquired,

"Will you tell me?"

It was such a simple enquiry and so very easy to escape for a mind such as his and yet, almost of their own volition, his lips had formed a response of,

"Yes, but not here."

A pause and then,

"My apartment is close by," there is no weight behind the words, no need for him to give any form of response at all and yet, once more, his traitorous mouth is responding,

"Yes, I believe that would be suitable."

What seemed only a heart beat and then he was being ushered into an upmarket apartment, furnished with pieces of the utmost quality and a clear eye for perfection. He instigates a little small talk about this simple observation and, then, when he feels able, he says,

"I was engaged to be married."

It is the first that he has spoken those words with a past tense and such a very simple thing cuts him deeper than anything that had gone before…Cuts him deep enough that he can not quite keep the emotion from his face…

Shame had caught him a moment and, driven by instinct, his fingers reach from the brim of his top hat. The Other's fingers intercept his own before they can reach that destination and, voice oh so gentle, he again enquires,

"Will you tell me?"

A silent affirmation and then he is weaving a tale that he had never thought to weave, is leaching himself of a poison that had lingered with him for what seemed a lifetime. Thus it is no surprise that, by the end, he feels drained of all energy and that, when The Other offers him a bed for the night, he voices only a concern of being an imposition, before he acquiesces.

A little after midnight a vivid nightmare stirs him from his sleep and, fuelled by a string of logic marred by fatigue and an all but primordial compulsion, he navigates his way towards The Other's room.

For a few minuets he simply lingers on the threshold, listening to the sound of the other's breath, and a long forgotten train of thoughts racing through his mind. Then The Other stirs, just a little and as fear courses hot adrenaline through his system, and a strong sort of clarity catches at him.

He wanted…no, he needed…to touch the other.

He had been taught, from a very early age, to think a situation through carefully before acting. To delicately assess each and every possible outcome in order to avoid risk taking and the detrimental effect such a thing had on a character.

Yet in that instant, in that one fixed point in time, he viewed such a lesson as superfluous nonsense.

And so he did what he had never thought to do and acted entirely on impulse.


	2. 2

One night was never going to be enough.

It was a truth that had been so very easy to deny that very first day, with the desperation of the night previous little more than a distant recollection and his mind filled with the sudden cold reality of just what something like this could mean for his reputation.

Being the voice of such cold reasoning had also proved so very easy that first day, guilt for instigating such a thing lending his words an animosity that he had never truly felt…lending him the emotional segregation that had been necessary in order to sound genuine when saying his farewell.

On that first day he'd gone home, eased his apprentice's worries with a well rehearsed story, taken a shower and lost himself in the solving of a particularly interesting puzzle.

He'd spent the next few days cataloguing the finds from his most recent dig, his mind so very concentrated on getting every little detail recorded just so that it had little time to wonder.

And suddenly it was Friday once more.

Habit had him out of the door at his usual time and it was only once Boodle's familiar façade that a certain sort of dread had set itself into his heart. He knew that The Other would be there and the thought of seeing his face again…of once again sharing the same space…obliterated the belief that he could simply move on.

Suddenly his mind was filled to the brim with the recollection of that night, of what it had felt to desire and be desired by another.

Stood but a foot from the building that had once been his sanctuary he felt his very carefully constructed self delusions crumble away.

One night was never going to be enough…

..because he loved The Other…

…no…

…because he loved Luke.

Even now he could not see how such a thing was possible and yet he could not deny that it was so; Could no longer deny that the man that had enthralled him, the man that he had given everything to, was one and the same as the child that he had long thought of as a son.

He feels suddenly nauseous and, pulling the brim of his hat as low as he dares, he all but runs from that place.

Why had he allowed this to happen? What was it about the other that had caused him to act in so unusual a manner? Why, even after this, did he yearn to be again in The Other's arms?

How could he make everything right again?

He had believed that with a little careful thought he would be able to answer any puzzle placed before him…and yet…

…and yet.

Eventually his feet bring him to Tower Bridge and, as his eyes drift down to gaze at the Thames, he finally understands what has to be done.

…………………………………………………………………………………

It is Saturday the 19th of March 1898 and he is, once again, reading the Times' grim headline.

He had failed.

Despite everything, he had failed.

The old, familiar, grief catches him a moment before white hot anger has his fingers tearing at the newspaper.

He should have made him stay, should have found some reason to keep him close just that little longer and then, perhaps…

Desperate fingers dive into his pocket and, as they catch onto the chill of mettle, his mind calms.

He had always been intelligent, that trait, as well as his inherent curiosity, the thing that had brought him to The Professor's attention. Time and his all but obsessive dedication to his 'lives goal' had honed that intelligence to a fine point.

Thus it is but a moments worth of thought to come to a very distressing conclusion.

He had caused this.

By coming back here, by attempting to keep The Professor alive, he had started a chain of events that had ended in his death.

Fingers tightening on the pocket watch his mind begins to work on a way to stop the circle before his younger self also made the same mistake.

Before his selfishness again took away the one thing that he had ever cared for.


End file.
